


got you covered, under covers

by witching



Series: you've been like a light [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Sex, Anxiety, Communication, Cunnilingus, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friends With Benefits, Hand & Finger Kink, Insecurity, Kissing, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Season/Series 01, Sleepovers, Strap-Ons, Tender Sex, Tenderness, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, Trans Tim Stoker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:09:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23471482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witching/pseuds/witching
Summary: "After the first time, they don't talk about it for nearly a week. Things are quite hectic at the institute, Jon's on edge all the time, and Tim and Martin can hardly get a minute to themselves without being scolded for slacking off. They check in with each other briefly, fleeting smiles in the hall and surprise cups of tea, and it's almost nice, having their happy little secret.There's a tipping point, though, inevitably. It's Friday, and Jon has neither slept nor left the institute in four days, and that's frustrating for Martin on many levels. Late in the day, when it's almost time to call it, he surreptitiously shoots Tim a text.fancy a slumber party tonight?"
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker, background Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims - Relationship
Series: you've been like a light [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1668694
Comments: 28
Kudos: 296





	got you covered, under covers

**Author's Note:**

> standard disclaimer: i am a trans person but im not transmasc, i always try to be informed abt the experiences im writing and value the insight of ppl who know it firsthand. terms used for martins body in this fic: cock, hole, folds. terms used for tims body: cock, dick, hole (used alternately to refer to the front and back)

_when no one loves you like they really mean it_   
_i got you covered, under covers, can you feel it?_   
_// carly rae jepsen, want you in my room_

* * *

After the first time, they don't talk about it for nearly a week. Things are quite hectic at the institute, Jon's on edge all the time, and Tim and Martin can hardly get a minute to themselves without being scolded for _slacking off._ They check in with each other briefly, fleeting smiles in the hall and surprise cups of tea, and it's almost nice, having their happy little secret.

There's a tipping point, though, inevitably. It's Friday, and Jon has neither slept nor left the institute in four days, and that's frustrating for Martin on many levels. Late in the day, when it's almost time to call it, he surreptitiously shoots Tim a text.

> _fancy a slumber party tonight?_

He's much bolder in this medium than face-to-face. He allows himself a moment to be surprised and impressed with himself, and then he hits send before he can overthink it. Tim's phone vibrates audibly from behind him, and Martin listens as he picks it up, reads the message, and gives a little huff of breath that sets Martin's anxiety gears turning. Is he laughing? Is he surprised? Is he angry with Martin for waiting so long?

Fortunately, Martin doesn't have time to spin fully into a spiral of doubt before his phone screen lights up with a response.

> **_tim:_ ** _definitely. dinner? not much at mine so we’ll have to stop somewhere, soz x_

He smiles at that. It's something of a thrill, a revelation, to be reminded that Tim cares about things like that. Tim wants him to eat well. Martin is once again comparing Tim in his head to his past lovers, those who would have him to their flats just to fuck, not even offering a glass of water, those who would take him from behind and never say his name. He doesn't dwell on that. He doesn't have to anymore, not when he can focus on the present, give Tim an answer.

> _dinner sounds lovely. thai? I'll pay_ 😊

The response comes almost immediately, so fast Martin wonders how Tim even had time to type the words, and again it's dreadfully warm, bringing a smile to Martin's face.

> **_tim:_ ** _don't be silly, you're my guest x_

Martin rolls his eyes as he stands from his desk, stretching out his limbs after far too long sitting, and texts Tim back, steadfastly not looking at him.

> _freeloader, more like. I'll buy you dinner every day for a hundred years if it gets me out of this place for a night._
> 
> _kidding! I can't afford that many dinners. I'll have to find some other way to compensate you for room and board_ 😉
> 
> _oh my god, that was stupid. long day. promise I'm not using you for a warm bed, and VERY MUCH not trying to move in with you. genuinely just want to hang out. and other things. sorry._

He actually hears Tim laugh aloud at that, and that eases some of his nerves about the situation and his own humiliating idiocy. He's just turning to join Tim so they can be on their way when Jon looks up from his desk with a deeply furrowed brow.

It's not as if Martin thought they could leave without him noticing. He's their direct supervisor; they have to have his _permission_ to end their shifts, technically. But it's that time of night, and so Martin had been hoping it would just sort of happen, rather than being a whole thing. Unfortunately, Jon has other ideas, because he can’t just let Martin _have_ anything, he has to make it difficult even when he doesn’t know he’s making it difficult.

"Martin, where are you going?" he asks, and he doesn't sound angry, but he certainly isn't happy. He's never happy.

Martin swallows nervously, lectures himself internally, tells himself he's not doing anything wrong, he doesn't owe Jon any explanations, he's not _trapped_ here. "I'm going out," he says, voice high and wavering. "It's six o'clock."

Jon looks legitimately surprised at that, though whether it's surprise at how late it's gotten or the fact that Martin is going out, or some combination of the two, is unclear. He stares blankly for a long moment, his eyes flitting between Martin’s face and his phone in his hand and his jacket slung over his arm, before saying rather lamely, “You usually stay late.”

“Yeah,” Martin replies slowly, “because I live here. But right now, I have plans.”

“Oh,” Jon says, casting his gaze downward, and Martin tries so very hard not to hope that he’s disappointed, that he doesn’t want Martin to go. He doesn’t have much time to get his hopes up, nor to talk them down again, before Jon adds, with an air of innocent curiosity, “What kind of plans?”

 _It’s none of his business, it’s none of his business, it’s none of his business,_ Martin tells himself, his surety threatening to bubble over into irritation which may become anger. He doesn’t want to be angry with Jon, he’s probably just trying to be social and doesn’t recognize that he’s crossing boundaries. Regardless, it’s _none of his business,_ and Martin is _not going to tell him._

“I’m going home with Tim tonight,” he says, plain and matter-of-fact, and then immediately claps a hand over his mouth, his face burning up. He can hear Tim gasp from behind him, clearly shocked that he’s been so forthcoming, though not nearly as shocked as Martin is at himself. “Oh God,” he groans, the words muffled against his fingers.

There’s a long minute full of heavy, palpable silence where Martin squeezes his eyes shut tight and hopes that it’ll go away – all of it, but particularly Jon. Tim is a few feet behind him staring at him in shock, and Jon is a few feet in front of him staring at him in shock, and Martin wants nothing more than to fully turn invisible and sink into the floor. 

And then, miraculously, blessedly, Tim steps up to his side, rests a hand on his shoulder, gentle and supporting, and turns to face Jon. “So, are you all good here? We free to punch out?” he says casually, conversationally, but firmly enough that Jon can be sure he’s not actually asking.

Jon freezes for a moment, then gives the two of them a jerky nod. Tim doesn’t wait to be told twice, just gives a mock half-salute, says “Right. See you Monday,” grabs Martin’s hand and makes for the door.

As soon as they’re out of the building, Tim gives Martin a bewildered look, a wild sort of glee lurking under the surface – the look he gets when Martin’s done something outrageously out of character that Tim greatly approves of. “Why would you _say_ that?” he asks, awestruck, eyes locked on Martin’s face as they walk.

“I don’t know,” Martin groans. “I didn’t – I didn’t mean to? Like, I wasn’t going to tell him, but then I just – did?”

“Whatever, doesn’t matter,” Tim shrugs, offers up a crooked grin. “Not like we’re breaking any rules. Not like it’s a secret. Unless – did you want to keep it between us?”

“It’s a bit late for that.”

“Well, yeah, but it’d be good to know if I should pretend to be upset about it.”

Martin smiles at that, quietly to himself, and then it dawns on him that Tim is still holding his hand, that they’ve been walking down the street hand-in-hand after walking through the institute hand-in-hand. That thought makes him smile even wider, giving Tim’s hand a quick, firm squeeze as they continue on their way.

They stop at a little Thai takeaway, and Tim insists on paying, and Martin lets him. When they reach Tim’s flat, Tim rather sternly directs Martin to sit on the sofa, excuses himself to the kitchen, and returns with drinks and their food, which he’s dished out into bowls, real ones that get washed and reused, and real metal silverware as well. It’s not a big thing, but it warms Martin’s heart to see Tim putting effort into this, making it nice for both of them.

He smiles as Tim sits down next to him and hands him a bottle, already opened. “It’s a bière blanche,” Tim explains before Martin can ask, clearly excited to tell him about it. “Best beer pairing for pad thai, trust me.”

“I do,” Martin replies without hesitation, taking the proffered drink. He tastes it immediately, not to humor Tim but because he’s genuinely interested in anything that Tim is this enthusiastic about. “It’s good,” he murmurs warmly.

Tim beams at him, an ardent, blinding thing, and places one hand on Martin’s knee while he begins eating with the other. The food is fantastic, so Tim can hardly be blamed for the fact that he digs in ravenously for nearly two whole minutes before realizing that Martin hasn’t touched his dinner at all.

He sets his bowl on the table, turns his head to look at Martin, and the other man starts slightly at being suddenly noticed, blinking as if waking from a daze. Tim’s hand on his knee feels hot even through his clothes, and Martin’s throat tightens.

Seeing him tense up, Tim cocks his head to the side and gives him a look of mild concern. “You alright?” he asks. “You’re not eating.”

Martin wrings his hands in his lap and stares intently down at them. “I’m fine, don’t worry about it,” he answers in an unconvincing tone. “It’s just – I don’t know if it’s nerves or what, but it’s always hard for me to eat before I – you know. It makes me nauseous.”

“Oh,” says Tim, furrowing his brow for just a moment before his features smooth into an expression of understanding. “Why didn’t you say anything? If you want to eat later, we’ll eat later.”

“But you’re – you seemed to be enjoying your food,” Martin protests.

“I enjoy many things,” Tim retorts easily. “Man’s got to have priorities.”

Martin flounders for another reason to disagree, another reason to put someone else’s needs before his own, to sacrifice a piece of him to make someone else happy. All he can to say to that end is, “But aren't you hungry?”

Tim quirks an eyebrow at him. “Aren’t you?” he asks pointedly, then offers up a small, mischievous smile. “Come on, we’ll do the other part first, and we’ll both work up an appetite.”

Flushing dark and hot, Martin bites his lower lip hard, looks down and away. "You don't have to do all that for me," he mumbles bashfully.

The shifting of the couch cushions under Tim’s weight and the soft whisper of fabric on fabric is Martin’s only warning before Tim tucks two fingers under his chin, guides his face up. Tim is sitting much closer now, and he's turned to face Martin fully, his face only inches from Martin’s when their eyes meet. He looks terribly serious, and awfully gorgeous, and his gaze burns down to the core of Martin, threatening to melt him into a puddle on the spot.

“Martin, I need you to do something for me,” Tim says, low and grave, leaving no room for argument. “It won’t be easy, but I need you to try your best to do it, because I’m your friend and I’m very selfishly asking it of you.”

“What is it?” Martin breathes, too wound up in every way to let his anxiety subside, even as Tim rather unsubtly drags him back into his comfort zone.

Tim smiles at him, all warmth and something that may be pride, and states slowly and clearly, “Tell that nasty voice in your head to fuck off.” He lets the words sink in for a long moment, ensuring that Martin isn't going to protest, and then he continues. "Every time that voice tells you that you're – a burden, or a chore, or that I'm only humoring you, or that I'm doing too much for you, or that you don't deserve every bit of it and more… just pretend that voice is someone saying those things about me. Or Jon. I know it won't just go away, I would never ask you to do the impossible, but – as a favor to me, your friend – would you try your best to get into the habit of telling it to fuck right off?"

Heaving a fond, put-upon sigh, smiling surreptitiously, Martin shakes his head. "Yeah, I can – I can try, Tim."

"Thank you," Tim says fervently. "Now – let me take care of you, okay?"

There's hardly time for Martin to give him a sheepish nod before Tim dives in and kisses him soundly. He rises up from his haunches to his knees to leverage himself over Martin, tilting the other man's face up further to accommodate the new angle before sliding his hand down from Martin's chin to grab a tight fistful of his collar.

Martin hums pleasantly as Tim licks past his lips, straining up to push into the kiss as much as possible, his own hands settling on Tim's hips. Tim's mouth tastes like curry, naturally, as he was eating it only a few minutes ago, and that should be a neutral thing at best, but Martin can't help sucking at Tim's lip and moaning at the thought. 

It's something about how human it feels, how intimate. It reminds him that this is Tim, his friend, not one of those businessmen he hooks up with in hotel rooms who shower and brush their teeth before _and_ after sex. Like Martin exists in a vacuum completely separate from the rest of their lives, no cross-contamination in either direction. With Tim, Martin gets the best kind of cross-contamination, with the added benefit of not feeling like a contaminant at all.

Tim breaks the kiss with a soft groan, almost in slow motion, his lips lingering on Martin’s for a moment that feels like an eternity before he pulls back entirely. He’s panting, gripping Martin’s shirt tightly and looking down at him with eyes full of heat and adoration. He tugs gently at Martin’s shirt collar, mutters, “I want to see you. Please.”

Resisting his initial urge to recoil from the request, Martin takes a deep breath, reminds himself of where he is and who he’s with. He tries to tell himself that Tim would never laugh at him, Tim would never be cruel, Tim would never insist on fucking with the lights off – but he doesn’t _really_ know that, does he? This is all so new for him, for them, and he can’t be certain of anything, really. 

But they’ll never get anywhere if Martin lets his anxieties and insecurities run amok. He realizes he’s been silent for entirely too long, Tim’s hands tentative and still on his collar, his imploring eyes tinged with a hint of concern for Martin’s lack of response. “Er, y-yeah,” Martin stammers at length, his eyes roving over Tim’s torso. “Just – I mean, are you sure?”

“Am I –,” Tim cuts off abruptly, wrinkles his brow at Martin. “Am I _sure_ that I want to get your clothes off?”

“That’s what I asked,” Martin replies in a shaking voice. “It’s only that – I mean, _are_ you?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Tim says sardonically, then pauses for a second, his hands a comforting weight on Martin’s chest as his deep eyes search Martin’s face for something. “Martin… if you don’t want to, that’s fine, I don’t want you to do anything that would make you uncomfortable. But I need you to know that you have absolutely nothing to worry about from me.”

The words and the warmth of Tim’s voice and the heat of his gaze are enough to unravel the knot of uncertainty in Martin’s chest. He bites his lip, nods his head minutely. “Do you – do you want me to do it?” he asks as Tim’s hands wander back up to the top button of his shirt.

Tim shakes his head. “I want you to relax.”

A snort of a laugh escapes Martin before he can stop it, and he just barely manages to hold back a _Not bloody likely._ But Tim’s gotten a laugh out of him, and that’s something, and then Tim’s long, beautiful fingers are working open the buttons of his shirt, and that’s certainly something as well. 

Martin quickly finds that if he keeps his eyes on Tim’s face while this happens, it does wonders to assuage his fears. Tim’s never been one to hide his feelings on anything, in any situation, and this is no exception: he looks positively ravenous, eyes wide and full of awe, his breath hitching just slightly with every inch of skin he exposes. It’s hard to be insecure about anything at all with Tim looking at him like he’s an oasis in a desert.

When he has Martin’s shirt open, Tim slides his hands under the sleeves and slips it from Martin’s shoulders, his touch lingering for a long moment. He looks over the broad expanse of Martin’s torso, brown skin smattered with freckles and dark hair, the twin scars on his chest. He hesitates, hovers, afraid to touch anything he shouldn’t touch or say anything he shouldn’t say.

“Can I –,” he begins, his voice rough and ragged with arousal, then clears his throat before continuing, “Can I kiss you?”

The question is barely out of his mouth before Martin replies, _“God,_ yes.” He’s fairly certain he would say yes to absolutely anything at the moment, and with the look on Tim’s face making it clear he doesn’t just mean kissing Martin’s face, he’s got Martin nearly buzzing out of his skin with anticipation.

Tim moves in with an equivalent enthusiasm, first kissing Martin’s lips, slow and soft and warm, before moving to press several quick kisses to his cheeks and his jawline. He mouths down the column of Martin’s throat, wet and messy, more tongue than lips, until he reaches the shallow dip at the bottom and turns to suck at the skin over his collarbone. 

It should be at least a bit humiliating how Martin writhes and whines just from a few open-mouthed kisses and a light hickey, but he doesn’t have room in him for embarrassment. Especially not as Tim shifts his weight, hands on Martin’s hips, and slides his tongue down from Martin’s clavicle to his chest to circle around his nipple. Martin lets out a contented little sigh, which transforms into a strangled moan halfway through when Tim begins to suck in earnest. 

Tim pulls back from his nipple with a soft, wet _pop,_ then he makes to move lower, but hesitates for a moment. Glances up at Martin with a question in his eyes, and Martin knows what he means, but Tim says it aloud anyway. 

“Is this okay?” he asks. Martin tenses up a little in spite of himself, and Tim frowns up at him, chin resting on Martin’s chest, and adds, “You can tell me no.”

“It’s not that,” Martin assures him with haste. “I just have – I mean, it’s kind of a, a reflex? Like, I _know_ that you’re not going to – to react badly, or say something stupid, or anything like that, and honestly it doesn’t even happen that often with other people, but… I don’t know. It’s silly, I mean my shirt’s already off, it’s not like you can’t _see_ –” He cuts himself off with a shake of his head, steadying himself, and runs a hand along the taut line of Tim’s bicep before asking, “Do you have…?”

It takes a moment, but Tim realizes what he’s asking. “Oh, er. No,” he says, his voice plain, not timid but lacking his usual bravado. “They, erm – they were pretty small to begin with, so the hormones pretty much took care of it.” He clears his throat, looks deep and earnest into Martin’s eyes. “What do you want? I’ll touch and taste and love every part of you that you’re comfortable with, and I’ll steer well clear of anything you’re not, you just say the word.”

 _Love_ flashes bright before Martin’s eyes, throbbing like a pulse, rendering him speechless. He knows exactly what it means, and more importantly, what it _doesn’t_ mean, and he doesn’t _want_ it to mean anything it doesn’t mean, but what it _does_ mean is – well, it means a lot to him. To hear Tim say it, to know that it’s true. Martin swallows around a lump of unwelcome emotion in his throat and replies in a hoarse whisper, “No, I – I want you to. All of it. Anything. I trust you.”

Hesitant, Tim cocks an eyebrow, asks, “You really sure?” He wants to know, wants to be certain that Martin wants the adoration he’s prepared to shower upon him. A tiny nod, a quiet hum of affirmation convinces him enough to resume his ministrations.

Trailing his lips down Martin’s chest once again, Tim moves slowly, worshiping every inch of him with kisses and bites, pausing every few moments to murmur bits of heated praise against Martin’s skin. “You’re so lovely,” he says, smiling softly at the whine that the comment pulls from Martin. “So beautiful. Such a treat,” – he kisses low on Martin’s ribs – “for me to see you,” – he presses his lips over a nipple and flicks his tongue out to tease at it – “and taste you,” – he licks a stripe down to the center of Martin’s chest, grazing over one of his scars and making him shiver – “and make you feel good.”

All of that is almost more than Martin can stand. He curls his fingers into Tim’s hair – lovely hair, perfect hair, soft and sleek and long and it twists so nicely around Martin’s hands that he thinks he might cry – and pulls him closer, holds him there for a moment before tugging gently to guide him back up so he can kiss him. 

It’s the first kiss that Martin’s initiated between the two of them, and that fact sticks in his mind as he wraps his arms around Tim’s neck and leans into him. Tim parts his lips so readily, inviting Martin to taste and explore, and Martin does so, moaning into Tim’s open mouth at the slide of tongues and the pressure of lips. 

Groaning low in his throat, Tim lets his hands wander to Martin’s waist, his hips, the small of his back, each brush of skin carrying the heat and intensity of molten glass. They carry on like that for quite a while, longer than Martin expects, and still he’s surprised when it ends. Even knowing it’s not the end of anything, the sudden lack of kissing makes him upset, both because he was rather enjoying the kissing and because he’s certain that Tim stopping the kissing means he’s done something wrong.

As soon as Tim’s mouth leaves his, Martin whines, his cheeks burning, and mutters a soft “Sorry.” 

Tim shakes his head and huffs out a fond breath, staying put with his face only millimeters away from Martin’s and his eyes closed for a moment, resting in the space and drinking in the moment before responding. “God, no,” he whispers hotly, his lips brushing Martin’s minutely enough that it may just be air, neither is actually sure. “Don’t apologize,” he continues, pulling back enough to properly talk to him, “no reason for that, nothing’s wrong.”

“Really? You sure?” Martin worries at his lower lip with his teeth, furrows his brow.

“Yeah, Martin, I promise,” says Tim, giving him a lopsided smile and a fond gaze. “I could kiss you _forever,_ really I could, but – well.”

“But what?” Martin asks, his voice high and strained, the vestiges of anxiety rising in his throat at the thought of what that _but_ could mean, so caught up in those worries that he glosses right over the other thing Tim said.

Tim takes a breath, not like he’s nervous but like he’s trying to be sensitive and think before he speaks, which Martin appreciates because it’s something he doesn’t often do. “I don’t want to be impatient, okay,” he begins, speaking steadily and with purpose. “I want to do this all at your pace, however you want, so if you want to make out for six hours before we do anything else, that’s what we’ll do.”

Frowning, Martin places his hands ever so gently on Tim’s shoulders, cocks his head to the side. “I don’t want to make out for six hours,” he says, a bit petulantly, “I want to do other things as well. But – why did you stop?”

“Because I’m so turned on it feels like I’ll _fucking_ combust,” Tim says at last, the words leaving him in a rush. “You’re so _unbelievably_ sexy, Martin, and you keep making _noises,_ and – I want to take you to bed and fuck you six ways from Sunday. But only if that’s what you want,” he adds.

“God, Tim, why didn’t you say?” Martin heaves a massive sigh of relief and smacks Tim lightly on the shoulder, a weight lifted from his chest. “You had me scared for a second,” he says, and then he leans in and kisses him, deep and messy, arms wrapped around his neck like one of them will float away if he lets go. They both press in as close as they can get, chests flush, nearly losing their balance on the sofa, and Tim is wide-eyed and panting when they break apart and Martin says simply, “Let’s go, then.”

Tim swallows hard, stands from the couch and helps Martin to do the same, and quickly reattaches to every part of him that he can reach. It’s a bit of a struggle, making it to the bedroom blind and backwards, but he manages to do it without pulling away from the kiss for any longer than it takes to let Martin tug his shirt over his head and discard it on the floor. 

When the backs of Tim’s legs hit the edge of his bed, he finally, reluctantly breaks the kiss, moves his fingers deftly along Martin’s skin to settle at his waistband. “This good?” he asks, tugging gently at Martin’s belt loops to clarify his meaning, and then adds, “I mean, both of us, obviously.”

Hands grasping for the button of Tim’s trousers, Martin doesn’t bother answering with words. Tim takes the hint and returns the favor, and with some stilted words and fumbling movements, they manage to rid themselves of clothes entirely. Martin drags Tim back into a kiss then, pressing a hand into the small of his back and pulling him close until everything is skin on skin and heat and want. 

It’s not until Tim needs to surface for air that either of them actually addresses their next step. Tim stops kissing Martin’s mouth only to instead mouth down the line of his jaw, and Martin angles his head to give Tim better access, moaning when Tim tongues expertly over a particularly sensitive spot on his throat.

Then Tim smiles, and Martin feels the movement of lips on his skin as he murmurs, “Do you want to fuck me, or do you want me to fuck you?”

“Oh _God,"_ Martin whines, high and breathless. "Anything, just. Anything you want."

Tim huffs out a little breath, fond and exasperated and amused at once. "I'm asking what _you_ want," he says pointedly.

"I want to fuck you," Martin answers quickly, as if the words are pulled out from the depths of him, "please."

A broad, easy smile spreads across Tim's face, and Martin feels warmth bloom in his chest at the sight of it. He feels like he's chosen the right answer, and like he's done the right thing, and like Tim is proud of him. It's silly, he thinks, but it makes him feel good. 

He’s so caught up in the rush of making Tim happy that he starts slightly when Tim moves away abruptly. A small noise of surprise escapes him, and then he follows with his eyes as Tim goes over to the other side of the room, pulls open a drawer with a look of gleeful anticipation. 

“Come on,” Tim calls over to him, beckoning, “you get to pick.”

Martin hesitates, just staring for a moment, before walking with stilted movements to join him. Tim really wasn’t exaggerating when he said he had a drawer full of toys. Martin has seen his fair share of sex toys, but this is the most he’s ever seen in one place, barring the one time he actually entered a sex shop before immediately leaving and deciding to buy everything online for the rest of his life. 

He clears his throat. “It’s, er. A lot to pick from.”

“Yeah,” Tim answers, sounding proud of himself. He pauses for a second, then states offhand, "I prefer it in the back, just – if that makes a difference to you."

Martin nods his acknowledgement, heat pooling in his gut at the ease of the declaration, but it doesn't help him make a decision. It only takes a few moments of staring at the drawer, overwhelmed and lost, before he shakes his head decisively. “Tim, you have to do it. I can’t pick.”

Tim tilts his head toward Martin, hums thoughtfully. “You’re sure? You’re not just doing that thing that you do where you refuse to ask for what you want?”

“No, I’m asking for what I want,” Martin assures him quickly. “I want you to pick. You know the selection better than me.” He lowers his voice, face heating up as he adds, “Plus, it’s kind of hot. You picking out what toy you want me to fuck you with.”

A breathless sound comes from Tim and he hides his face as he turns back to the drawer, rummaging through it with businesslike directness, as if he knows exactly what he’s looking for. “Alright,” he mutters as he pulls two toys from the depths of it, presenting them for Martin’s viewing pleasure. “Do you want a strap or a two-sided?”

Martin’s mouth goes dry as he takes in the sight, hesitating for only a moment before making a decision. He nods toward the strapless toy in Tim’s right hand, a sleek, deep purple thing with a tapered shape attached to a curve and then a long, fairly thin extension. His skin feels hot and tight all over just thinking about it.

Tim smiles at him. He keeps doing that, and it never gets less brilliant. He takes Martin’s hand and leads him back toward the bed, guiding but not pushing, letting Martin have the control. 

It’s gradual, but Martin’s feeling more comfortable with the whole situation by the second. He puts a hand firmly on Tim’s chest, pushing him onto the bed and straddling his waist in one smooth motion, and leans down to kiss him, deep and messy. Tim groans into the kiss, bites Martin’s lip just gently.

When Martin pulls back, Tim’s hardly breathing at all. He looks up at Martin, eyes glassy with arousal, and says, “Do you want help with that? Or you got it?”

Looking down at the toy lying next to Tim’s shoulder on the bed, Martin thinks for a moment before reaching to pick it up. He swings his leg over to get off of Tim, moving to sit on his knees in the center of the bed, legs spread wide, and he looks deviously back and forth between Tim and the toy in his hands.

“Oh, I’ve got it,” Martin muses quietly. He waits until he’s sure Tim is watching him with rapt attention, then positions the toy between his legs. He makes a show of it without drawing it out for too long, slipping the bulb of it between his slick folds and rocking down on it before he pushes it in with a soft, contented sigh. He’s wet enough that there’s almost no resistance at all, just the comfortable familiarity of something inside him.

He pauses to appreciate the feeling, to stroke the silicone cock that juts out proudly from his pelvis, shifting the toy deeper inside himself and biting back a moan. A punched-out sort of grunt from Tim pulls his attention, and he turns his head to see the other man staring up at him, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

“Martin,” Tim breathes, his voice rough. “Fuck, I want – I want it in my mouth, please.”

“Oh,” says Martin, “yeah. Yeah, you can – whatever you want.”

Tim seems to lose himself entirely at that, pushing up on one hand and practically lunging forward to bring his face close to the toy cock. He leans against Martin’s bare thigh, skin hot and soft on his cheek, and looks up at him through a thick veil of lashes. 

“Will you fuck my mouth?” he asks, heartfelt and yet still far too casual. Martin nods, and Tim grabs his hands and moves them to the side of his head, inviting Martin to grab hold of him, to fuck him deep. 

It’s probably somewhat redundant, Martin thinks, to describe any part of this as _obscene,_ but that’s what it is. He twists his fingers into Tim’s hair and pulls him closer, pushing the cock past his lips and watching, entranced, as Tim’s eyes flutter shut at the first taste of it. He looks like he’s been waiting for this for years, like Martin fucking his mouth with a dildo is the only thing he’s ever craved, and having it now is the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

Tentatively, Martin thrusts his hips forward until the toy hits the back of Tim’s throat. The sound that Tim makes is something guttural, hungry, and rather than pull back, he sucks enthusiastically on the silicone. It’s all wet moans and whining breaths, Tim’s hands fisted in the sheets while Martin holds his head and fucks his face for a blissful minute. 

When Martin pulls Tim off the cock, the other man looks up at him with unbridled desire in his half-lidded eyes, his lips round and red and wet. He takes a moment to remember how to breathe and how to speak, blinks and lets out a short laugh at the tears that slip down his cheeks. 

"Thanks," he says eventually, his voice ragged in his throat. 

Martin smiles, pulls him gently to rise to his knees, kisses him a few times in succession. "You enjoy yourself?" he teases, arms wrapping around Tim's neck, breath dancing across his skin. "Haven't even gotten to the good part yet."

Tim whines desperately, pressing in for another urgent kiss before answering. "Yeah, I have a – a thing," he says half-apologetically. "A mouth thing."

"I'm not an expert," Martin replies, "but I'm pretty sure they call it an oral fixation."

"Yeah, sure, that." Tim laughs, all levity and glee, and then he twists around, breaks out of Martin's intimate grasp to reach across the bed in search of something. 

Martin follows the movement with his eyes, watches Tim grab a bottle of lube and turn back to face him. "I can do it myself," Tim says, sounding almost sheepish, "if you don't want to."

Brow furrowed, Martin frowns at him. "Why wouldn't I want to – Tim, it's foreplay. I'm here for that."

Tim smiles at him like a sunbeam, and Martin takes the lube from his open palm, clasping his fingers around the tube and lingering over Tim's skin. "Come on, then," he murmurs gently, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a warm smile, "on your front or back?"

Tim doesn't say anything in response, just flops down on the bed on his stomach, folds his arms under his head, turns to give Martin a cheeky grin over his shoulder. When Martin returns the smile, Tim wiggles his hips, pushes his ass up in the air.

"Yeah," Martin mutters with a placating hand on Tim's flank, "real cute."

"You can talk."

"Shut up," Martin replies, his bashful tone slightly covered by the _click_ of the lube cap and the slick rubbing of his fingers.

Tim's breath catches conspicuously, loudly, in his throat as Martin places a hand on the curve of his ass and squeezes gently. When he spreads his cheeks and rubs a finger over the tight pucker of his hole, Tim shivers from head to toe.

He whines under his breath, tries to push back. Eager. Martin chuckles, presses his index finger slowly inside, not really intent on dragging it out any longer. 

"Oh fuck, Martin," Tim sighs instantly, clenching around his finger. "You know you have – you have the nicest hands?"

Martin laughs again, more nervous and awkward this time, and twists his finger inside, pumping it in and out slowly. His other hand trails down the line of Tim's back, gentle and soothing, and Tim keeps talking, as he tends to do.

"Really, really – your fingers are. So nice, Martin, you've got… very nice, thick fingers," he babbles, sounding almost drunk on the sensation. "You know I've h-had – _dreams_ about those fingers."

"Is that so?" Martin asks, his voice strangled as he tries to keep it level. He pulls his finger out, only to press two back in, excruciatingly slowly. 

"Yeah," Tim answers immediately, gasping at the new slick stretch. He struggles to get more words out while Martin fucks him thoroughly on his fingers. "Dreamed about this," he says, "a lot. Your fingers inside me – _God,_ I've wanted this."

"Why'd you wait so long, then?"

"What?"

"If you've wanted me that badly," Martin explains patiently, though he says it like it's a ludicrous idea, "then why did you wait so long to do something about it?"

Tim groans out of something like frustration or annoyance, then cuts off his own sound with a high-pitched, breathy moan before answering. "I, it was…" he pauses, grits his teeth, finally makes a decision. "Don't worry about it. I'll tell you later."

Martin looks a tad suspicious, his eyebrows raised. "Later?"

"Yeah. After you fuck me."

"Then let's get to it, shall we?"

Tim smiles, a glowing, endearing thing. "You always surprise me," he murmurs. "Suddenly, you’re all take-charge, Mr. Proactive. It’s very hot."

Nodding, Martin smiles back at him, ignores his reflexive embarrassment. He grabs the bottle of lube from where he set it down, slicks up the toy cock with practiced efficiency, and pulls Tim back by his hips to line him up. "What can I say," he replies breezily, "I'm good at this part."

Tim might try to agree with him, but whatever he's prepared to say falls to the wayside rather abruptly when Martin rocks his hips forward. The tip of the dildo breaching his hole is enough to punch all the air from his lungs in a long, high moan. Martin doesn't ease up, and Tim doesn't want him to; he pushes in carefully, steadily, hands on Tim's hips.

"Oh, that's good," Martin says softly, almost to himself, when he's seated fully inside. He grinds his hips forward, pushing the bulb deeper inside himself and rubbing the base of the cock against his own, and groans in satisfaction before turning his attention back to Tim. "You like that? You want more?" he asks, tender and earnest.

Tim buries his face in the sheets, nods his head. Martin doesn't hesitate to begin fucking him hard and deep, snapping his hips forward forcefully and relishing the wanton moan it pulls from Tim's mouth. Honestly, Martin thinks, even if it didn't involve having something inside him, he could probably get off just from the sounds Tim makes. Or the words he says, when he can form words.

"Yeah, _fuck,_ right there," he slurs, voice muffled against the sheets. Martin rewards him with a sharp thrust at the same angle, which has Tim pleading, "Oh _God,_ Martin, t-touch me. Please? _Please_ touch my cock, I want your lovely hands, please."

Martin leans in to curl an arm around Tim's waist, rubbing his cock in time with his thrusts. The slight change in position has the toy shifting inside Martin, brushing against a sensitive spot with every push and pull. He moans deep in his throat, presses a soft, chaste kiss to the back of Tim's shoulder. 

It's funny now, to think of how hesitant Martin was at the beginning of all this. He doesn't think too hard about it, not now, not when he has Tim under him, gasping and moaning for him.

Tim's past words at this point, just making the most beautiful noises as Martin fucks into him. Martin has the sudden urge to fill the void of conversation, though the room is far from silent. He's just so used to Tim talking incessantly, it's odd for him to go nonverbal.

"Are you gonna come for me?" Martin asks sweetly, hot breath and soft lips against Tim's skin. "I'm close, too. You're so good, you know that? You turn me on so much, I could come just from seeing you like this."

The whispered confession is achingly erotic, and Tim nearly blacks out as he comes with a whine. Martin thrusts inside him once more, grinds up against him and draws out Tim's orgasm while he chases his own. It hits him several moments later, the toy pushed up inside him and pressing against his cock mercilessly at the same time, and his arm tightens around Tim's middle as he rides it out.

There's the shortest moment of peace, then Martin shifts and pulls the toy cock out of Tim, sits back and pulls the bulbed base out of himself before setting it aside. He looks back over at Tim to see he's rolled over onto his back and is staring up at Martin with wide, awe-filled eyes. 

"That was good," Tim says lamely.

Martin smiles at him, doesn't even think before replying, "Want another?"

Tim swallows hard. "What?"

"Do you want another?"

"Another orgasm?"

"Yeah."

"I mean… yeah," Tim answers, sounding a bit guilty. "But you don't have to –"

"I told you," Martin cuts him off, placating and more confident than ever, "I'm _good_ at this part. I _want_ to – to get you off with my mouth, if you'd like."

Blowing out a long breath through his teeth, Tim studies Martin's face for a moment. He looks sincere, not like he's trying to make up for a nonexistent shortcoming or apologize for an imaginary mistake, so Tim nods. "Yeah," he breathes. "Yeah, I'd like that."

Glowing with a mix of enthusiasm and pride, Martin lowers himself between Tim's legs without much ado. "What's off-limits?" he asks casually, peering up at Tim through his lashes.

"Just – no fingers, in the front," Tim answers, "but tongue is alright. And – and the language. You know. I know what you're okay with, but I prefer not to – you know."

Martin nods, feeling very grateful for the fact that he does know what Tim means, because it could easily be incomprehensible gibberish. They've discussed it before, long before they ever had sex, just in the course of friendly – if a bit drunk – conversation. Tim doesn't like certain words applied to his body, and that's perfectly understandable. Martin doesn't mind those words when they refer to his own anatomy, and that's perfectly understandable as well.

"You want me to suck your cock?" Martin asks, almost coyly. 

He doesn't wait for an answer, leans in and licks a stripe from Tim's slick hole up to the tip of his cock. Swirling his tongue around the tip draws the most delicious noises from Tim, and when Martin takes the whole thing in his mouth and sucks on it like a candy, Tim practically loses the ability to make any sound at all. 

He alternates back and forth, tonguing enthusiastically at Tim's hole, lapping him up with wet, filthy noises, before moving back up to lick and suck his cock. A few times, he takes a detour to nip gently at Tim's thighs or suck on the hot, slick skin of his folds, making him moan helplessly. 

When Martin reaches up with one hand to toy with Tim's nipples, pinching and rolling one and then the other, Tim is done for. He shakes apart on Martin's tongue, coming with a hoarse shout, his back arching off the bed. Martin sucks him through the aftershocks, not letting up until Tim is squealing from overstimulation, and then he finally pulls back.

All in all, he's really rather proud of himself, and Tim could tell by the look on his face, if he weren't so far gone. He looks up at Martin in a daze and smiles at him, that big goofy Stoker grin.

"You are… _really_ good at that part," he says eventually.

Looking down to hide a bashful smile, Martin shakes his head and mumbles something modest and incoherent before crawling up the length of the bed to lie next to Tim. He hesitates, but ultimately decides to rest his head on Tim’s shoulder and reach for his hand. Tim melts against him a bit, and even more when Martin presses a kiss to his bare shoulder and twines their fingers together, eyes fixed on their hands.

He takes a breath, savors the smell of Tim for a moment, and then murmurs, “That was good for you?”

“It was incredible.”

“You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

Tim has the gall to laugh at that, wrapping his free arm around Martin's shoulders, wedged between his body and the bed. “I’m not _surprised,_ Martin, I’m amazed.”

“Yeah, well,” Martin sniffs, a bit indignant. “I’ve got plenty of experience in the art of making men come."

"But not so much in the way of _receiving_ that kind of attention," Tim replies softly, not a question.

"No," admits Martin, "not so much."

Tim gives him an exaggerated frown and cranes his neck to press a kiss to the corner of Martin's mouth. "That's what I was afraid of," he pouts. "You give too much, babe. And you are… _so_ good at it, don't get me wrong. But I want you to know that it's okay to accept love, too. It's okay to ask for it, even."

Martin's breath catches as he turns his head to hide his face from Tim's view. He clears his throat, swallows back a lump of emotion, and changes the subject. "You said you'd tell me," he says quietly, "what took you so long."

There's a beat of silence, Tim's hand tightening on Martin's arm, and then he blows a breath out through his teeth. "Okay, if you want," he mutters in a sort of warning tone. "It, er… it was because of Jon."

"Jon?" Martin squeaks, "What about Jon?"

With a guilty grimace, Tim shifts to look more directly at him. "Well, you're just… you're _gone_ over him, aren't you?" He doesn't give Martin time to answer before rushing to assure him, "And that's fine, really, I mean… I can hardly blame you. But I just didn't want to get in the middle of anything."

"There's nothing to get in the middle of," Martin replies, quick and defensive, before his mind catches up and he adds, "Wait, what do you mean you can't blame me?"

"I just – I'm not going to pretend I'm not a little into him," Tim mutters a bit shamefully. "And yeah, I know there’s nothing going on."

Blinking away the slight shock of Tim’s confession, Martin presses on, eager to get to the bottom of this without getting caught up in the details. He makes a mental note to return to this topic at a later time. "Then what was the issue?" he asks, not unkindly. “What was stopping you?”

Tim takes a deep, shaking breath, pinches the bridge of his nose. He looks at Martin with real pity in his eyes, but the warm kind of pity that Martin can't help but appreciate. The kind of pity that's more care than anything else. 

Tim takes a long time to think about his answer, rubbing a soothing hand along Martin's shoulder. "I didn't want…" he pauses again, heaves a deeply pensive sigh. "I just didn't want to get involved in something with you if, if you were hung up on him, you know?"

"I'm not," says Martin.

"You are," Tim retorts, "but that's okay, because we're friends. You're my friend and – and I don't think that what we've got going on has to undermine your feelings for him, or vice versa."

Martin pauses, thrown off by the statement. He thinks about his _feelings_ for Jon, and how he hadn't really considered that it could get in the way of this thing with Tim. Eventually, he realizes Tim is right, nods his head decisively. "That's… very sensible."

"Yeah, well. You'd be surprised how sensible I can be," Tim teases him, "with the right incentive."

Martin turns his face toward Tim's chest, his cheeks burning. "M'hardly an incentive," he mumbles into the warmth of Tim's skin, closing his eyes against the strength of the man's gaze.

Pressing another kiss to the top of Martin's head, Tim smiles, lips moving against his hair so gently. "Sweetheart, you're a fucking temptation on _ice."_

The turn of phrase makes it impossible for Martin not to laugh. "I don't know what that means, Tim," he giggles, because it's easier than accepting such an outlandish compliment on its face. 

"It means you're lovely," Tim sighs contentedly, "and I'm really glad you're here."

"Thanks, Tim," Martin murmurs, lifting their intertwined hands to press a kiss to Tim's knuckles. "I'm really glad, too."

Moving his other hand from Martin's shoulder to the back of his head, Tim guides his face up so he can kiss him properly, slow and deliberate in the way he licks between Martin's lips and slides their tongues together. Martin lets his eyes slip closed, pushing up into the kiss with enthusiasm. 

When he nips lightly at Tim's lip, he thinks about how nice it will be to see his mouth looking like it's been thoroughly kissed, lips swollen and wet and parted slightly as he catches his breath. The thought is enough to motivate him to break the kiss, and Tim looks just as delicious as he imagined. It's a sight he could get used to.

After taking a moment to simply appreciate the view, Martin pushes himself up onto his elbow, rests his chin in his hand and looks thoughtful. The crease between his eyebrows, the jut of his lip has Tim mesmerized until Martin decides to speak.

"So," he muses, nonchalant although his voice is rough. "You hungry?"

Tim grins like a cat, kisses him one more time before hopping out of bed. He pulls on a clean pair of boxers, turns to Martin with a very serious look and orders him in no uncertain terms to stay put, and leaves for a minute. When he comes back once again bearing food and drink, this time with a breakfast tray for the ease of eating in bed, Martin gladly and gratefully accepts it.


End file.
